singing in the crowds
by ink-stained dreams
Summary: Her heart will scream with longing and she will strain to pull herself from the wallpaper, but she has been singing her empty songs in silence for so long that she will have forgotten how to make herself heard above the crowds.


She has never been

special.

She is the youngest, the last-_just another freckle-faced Weasley_-and she thinks she hates it. But she's only eleven, isn't she? Eleven-year-olds don't really know anything, do they? That's what she's been told, anyway, so she has to settle for _thinking_(knowinginthepitofhersoul) that she hates being

ordinary.

* * *

She is a

wallflower.

A little paper tulip, her bright gasping mouth frozen on the plaster, always screaming(_silent_) for love, love, love and no one sees her. She is little fire-haired (_venom-hearted_) Weasley, she is little ignorant girl, and she is always gasping with no one to hear her.

* * *

He is

lovely.

Skin like creamy-fresh parchment, hair as dark as the leather covers that bind him. Eyes like the pre-dawn winter sky, that frozen, pale blue that sees her as no other can. She speaks and he answers. She calls and he comes. He is there with open arms and tender words and gentle eyes, and _Merlin_ it just feels so good to have him. For he is hers, hers, hers, (possession is power and it tastes like wine) and she is intoxicated.

* * *

She is

alone.

(He is there and she pours herself into him.)

* * *

He is

frightening.

The headrush finally fades, and when she comes to, she realizes that his beauty is lemon to her open wounds. He is tall, pale, dark, handsome, amazing, beautiful, and what is she? Little ember girl, little washed-out tulip. Yet he listens and he purrs charms without hesitation. She doesn't even need to speak anymore-he knows. He knows her so well(too well) and sometimes she is

afraid of this.

* * *

He tells her

"I will always be here for you, Ginevra."

And, like the child she is, she believes him.

* * *

He is

darkness.

She is

light.

And sometimes she really thinks they are beautiful together.

* * *

She is losing herself. She turns to the diary like an addict, seeking answers, seeking comfort, seeking anything at all.

_Dear Tom, I need you._

And then the pages split with light, she falls into the brightness hungrily, and he is there, smiling his beautiful (_sharp?_) smile.

"Why can't I remember where I've been, Tom?"

He smiles and tells her, "Ginevra, you are safe here, always remember that."

"I do, Tom."

"Do you trust me, Ginevra?"

"Always, Tom."

"Then allow me to heal you."

Then his eyes find hers and she falls(_leaps?_) into the great freezing depths and she is safe(?) here. He knows her. (and pulls out her secrets and cuts her open and leaves her shivering but at least she's feelingsomethingfor_once_)

* * *

He isn't

real.

Why can't he be

real?

* * *

(she is only eleven and she has never felt anything before so this must be love, right?)

* * *

She wakes up with the smell of blood on her hands and the memory of blue. She wants to scream but paper tulips don't have voices, do they?

* * *

He is in her head her heart her hands her voice and maybe she doesn't mind as long as he is close to her.

* * *

(She will be sixteen and still

broken.

She will see him everywhere, hear his voice in her head. She will cling to him with all she has, trying to reach him somehow, straining to keep him alive.

Once,

in a dream,

she will feel breath on her neck and his hand on her shoulder, and she will whirl to find him there. Her heart will scream with longing and she will strain to pull herself from the wallpaper, but she has been singing her empty songs in silence for so long that she will have forgotten how to make herself heard above the crowds.

She would have lost him, except he had never been hers in the first place.)

* * *

He is

cruel.

He stands there above her with his beautiful, triumphant face (he is killing her but he is still her angel), and she wants to sob but he has taken her throat and lungs for his own. The rippling light spills over him in pallid waves as she freezes to the wet stone, her lips trembling, her heart barely beating. She searches his eyes for the warmth she thought she knew(_onlypretendeditwasthere_). There is nothing but ice and venom, ink and paper made solid but given no heart.

He smiles at her, and she still loves him even as he takes her life.

"You are my sacrifice, Ginevra," he whispers to her.

And that is good enough for her.


End file.
